Presently the avocat, thinking that he might wish to be alone with the Cure, stepped quietly to the door and opened it upon Madame Chalice. She pressed his hand, her eyes full of tears, passed inside the room, going softly to a shadowed corner, and sat watching the passive figure on the bed.
What were the thoughts of this man, now that his adventure was over and his end near? If he were in very truth a prince, how pitiable, how paltry! What cheap martyrdom! If an impostor, had the game been worth the candle?—Death seemed a coin of high value for this short, vanished comedy. The man alone could answer, for the truth might not be known, save by the knowledge that comes with the end of all.
She looked at the Cure, where he knelt praying, and wondered how much of this tragedy the anxious priest would lay at his own door.
“It is no tragedy, dear Cure” Valmond said suddenly, as if following her thoughts.
“My son, it is all tragedy until you have shown me your heart, that I may send you forth in peace.”
He had forgotten Madame Chalice’s presence, and she sat very still.
“Even for our dear Lagroin,” Valmond continued, “it was no tragedy. He was fighting for the cause, not for a poor fellow like me. As a soldier loves to die, he died—in the dream of his youth, sword in hand.”
“You loved the cause, my son?” was the troubled question. “You were all honest?”
Valmond made as if he would rise on his elbow, in excitement, but the Cure put him gently back. “From a child I loved it, dear Cure,” was the quick reply. “Listen, and I will tell you all my story.”
He composed himself, and his face took on a warm light, giving it a look of happiness almost.